Secrets of the Tudor Court Boxed Set

6

The night after we received word of the Battle of Flodden, the Lady Mary suffered from nightmares. The next night, she ordered me to keep her company. It was not uncommon for one of her ladies to sleep with her for warmth, but what she wanted from me was distraction.

Closed into the high, curtained bed, the covers pulled up to our chins, we were as private as anyone could ever be at court. In the room beyond, several more of her women slept on pallets on the floor. If we spoke too loudly, we would be overheard.

“I do not wish to think of blood and battle,” the princess said. “Tell me what you have learned from your French friend.”

I hesitated, uncertain it would be wise to admit that my mother had been thought capable of killing a king. I did not believe for a moment that she had done so, but the royalty of any country are bound to be sensitive about such matters.

Mary pouted. “I thought we were friends. You can trust me to keep your confidences.”

I lay on my back, staring up at the brocade ceiler over our heads. “It appears that my mother wished to disappear. She spirited me out of France and somehow the rumor started that she and I had both died after leaving Amboise. In truth, we came here to England to begin a new life.”

“Anyone would prefer England to France.” Mary sounded smug.

“What troubles me is that I do not know why we had to hide where we were going. Maman promised me that she would explain, but she died before she could keep her word.”

“Is there no one else you can ask?”

“My uncle must know something of her reasons, but he is with King Henry. It could be months yet before I have the opportunity to talk to him.”

As we’d had reports of the war with Scotland, so, too, had we received news of King Henry’s campaign against the French. After the battle in which the duc de Longueville had been captured, the English had gone to Lille, where they were entertained by Archduchess Margaret, the regent of the Netherlands. Diplomacy had replaced combat, and among the matters being discussed was a date for the Lady Mary to consummate her marriage to Charles of Castile. His title might come from a Spanish kingdom, but Charles himself had been raised by the Archduchess of Flanders. She was his aunt, the sister of that same King Philip who had once visited England. Charles had another aunt, too—our own Queen Catherine.

“Is there no one else who knew your mother when she first arrived?” Mary asked. “She was one of my mother’s ladies, was she not?”

“Yes, for a few months before she died.” My voice was flat, hiding the turmoil inside me.

“A few weeks is long enough to make friends. Oh! I know! You must talk to Mother Guildford. Do you not remember? Before she took charge of my household, she was in Mother’s service. She must have known your maman.”

I grimaced, thinking my expression hidden, but Mary knew me too well.

“Stop making faces. Mother Guildford is exactly the person you need. She has an excellent memory and she knows everyone. She should. Before she was in my mother’s household, she served my grandmother.”

“Which one?”

“Father’s mother, the Countess of Richmond.”

Perhaps, I thought, that was where Mother Guildford acquired her sour temperament. I remembered the countess as being irascible on her best days, and she had always seemed to go out of her way to make me feel inferior…when she took notice of me at all. But Mary was right. Mother Guildford was the most likely person to remember who had befriended a newcomer at court some fifteen years earlier.

Two days later, accompanied by a groom, I set out on horseback for Mother Guildford’s little house near the Blackfriars’ Priory, in London. She lived there in strained circumstances. Her husband’s death in Jerusalem on pilgrimage had left her deep in debt. Her only income, so her son Harry had told me, came from fifty marks a year in dower rights and the rent Charles Brandon paid to live in what had once been his uncle’s house in Southwark, the London suburb on the south side of the Thames. No one seemed to know why, but Sir Thomas Brandon had willed the property to the widow of his old friend Sir Richard Guildford. Perhaps he had felt sorry for her.

Mother Guildford received me in a small parlor at the upper end of the hall. It smelled of cedar and the strong, unpleasant odor of gout wort. “Why have you come now?” she asked. “It cannot be for the pleasure of my company or you would have found time to visit me long since.”

Time had wrought few changes in the former lady governess. She was more irascible, it was true. And her hair that had once been brown had more gray and new lines had appeared around her eyes and mouth. Otherwise she was still the same forceful woman I remembered from my youth. She had just entered her fiftieth year.

“I thought you might wish to hear the news from court,” I said from my perch atop a low Flemish chest. She was ensconced in the room’s only chair.

“I am not without friends! And I have eyes to see and ears to hear.” She gestured toward an open octagonal window that took up most of the gable end of the room. “No one could have missed the shouts and huzzahs and ringing bells that celebrated England’s victory over the Scots.”

Nodding, I allowed that the celebrations would have been difficult to miss. “I have news for you of Queen Margaret.”

“Poor chit.” Mother Guildford’s voice abruptly softened. For a moment, I thought she shared my own conflicting feelings of joy and sorrow. “There will be another battle now,” she continued. “This one political. The nobles will fight over who keeps control of the new king’s person while he grows to manhood.”

“Not so. Queen Catherine took a hand in arranging matters. That is my news. As the king’s mother, Margaret Tudor will serve as regent.”

“How long will that last? The Scots will not take to being ruled by a woman. Like as not, Margaret will soon find herself shunted aside to live out the rest of her life bereft of both husband and children.”

“I do not think I would care to be a queen,” I murmured.

Mother Guildford gave a snort of laughter eerily like the sound her son Harry was wont to make. “On that we can agree. Now tell me why you really came to visit me.”

“Because you know everyone of any significance in all of England.”

“True enough.” Mother Guildford preened a bit.

“Do you remember my mother, Joan Popyncourt? She joined the household of Queen Elizabeth of York about fifteen years ago.”

A hint of wariness came into Mother Guildford’s expression. “She was not with us long.”

“Mid-June until early September.”

I thought I detected a flash of sympathy in her steel gray eyes. “Your mother came to England with you because she had family here. Talk to your uncle if you wish to know more. He is still alive, is he not?”

“Sir Rowland is abroad with the king. I will speak with him when he returns to England, but in the meantime there must be others I can ask about her.”

“What is it you wish to know—and why now?”

Why did we leave France in such a hurry? Why did we bring nothing with us but our clothing? I thought to myself.

Aloud, I said only, “I have found myself remembering her of late and wondering about her last days. I thought perhaps she might have confided in you, mayhap told you what her reasons were for leaving France.”

“I did not know her well enough to inspire confidences.”

“Did anyone?” I held my breath.

“No.”

I hid my disappointment. My gaze shifted to my hands, folded in my lap. I clasped them together so tightly that the seam on one glove popped.

I could feel Mother Guildford’s gaze boring into me. She waited until I looked at her to say, “She was already dying by the time she reached England.”

“That is not possible! Surely if there was something wrong with her when we left France I would have noticed.”

“You were a child, Jane. Your mother took pains to hide her illness from you. A wasting sickness, as I recall.” Sitting stiffly in her leather-backed chair, Mother Guildford’s expression was set in grim lines. “No doubt that is why she came to England. She hoped her brother would provide for you, as he did by finding you a place at Eltham.”

She could have found me a place at the court of Anne of Brittany, I thought. Besides, Mother Guildford’s explanation did not mesh with my memory of that first meeting between my mother and King Henry.

“My uncle cares little about me. Indeed, he has gone out of his way to avoid me since my mother died.”

“He did his duty by you. Upon her death, you became a royal ward.”

“Maman talked privately with the king when we first arrived. I was in the room with them. He promised to look after us both.” That, too, now that I thought about it, seemed strange. Why had he taken responsibility for me?

“Underage children of the gentry and nobility almost always become wards of the crown when their parents die. Do not think yourself anything out of the ordinary.”

But I was, I thought. I’d had no wealth or property to be used for the king’s benefit during my minority. Why had he bothered to assume responsibility for me? And why, since I had been his ward, had he not found me a husband? In the ordinary way of things, that was the first duty of a guardian. There had to be more to the story.

“Who was with my mother when she died? If not a friend or confidante, then what servant had she? Which of the queen’s other ladies was her bedfellow?” Few at court had the luxury of a bed to themselves. I could not remember ever sleeping alone. I usually shared both chamber and bed with one or two other gentlewomen.

Reluctantly, Mother Guildford said, “We were on progress.”

“I remember. That was the reason Maman could not come to Eltham to visit me.” King Henry VII, Queen Elizabeth of York, the Countess of Richmond, and their households had all traveled together, first into Essex and then north. Along the way they’d visited numerous courtiers and stayed at an assortment of castles and manors.

“She died at Collyweston,” Mother Guildford continued. “That was the king’s mother’s principal residence. When it was clear that your mother was dying, the countess ordered her removed to a small room of her own for fear of contagion.”

“She was left alone?” Horrible thought!

“One of the royal physicians was likely sent to her. She’d have had a servant to see to her needs.”

“Who?”

“How should I remember? It was many years ago.”

“What physician, then?”

“I do not know.” Mother Guildford held up a hand, palm toward me, to stop me from asking more questions. “I have an excellent memory, Jane, but I cannot recall every detail, nor can I tell you something I never knew.”

“Did Maman have a confessor? Surely a priest must have given her last rites.”

“I am certain one did, but again I have no idea who he might have been.”

“Someone must know. Who might I ask?”

“The queen’s household was broken up when Elizabeth of York died. By then I had been placed in charge of the Lady Mary’s household at Eltham. I do not know where anyone went. They are scattered, if not dead, by this time. It would be most difficult to track them down and I do much doubt they could tell you any more than I have. No one knew your mother well, Jane. She was not with us long enough and she kept to herself.”

In my agitation, I could no longer be still. I stood and began to pace, my steps taking me to the cold hearth, then across the room to a window hung with curtains of green say. It overlooked a small garden, ill tended. “If she was ill…dying…why did no one do anything to help her?”

“Shall I tell you what I recall of your mother’s illness?” Her voice sounded reluctant.

“Yes, if it please you.”

“It does not particularly, but I can see you will not let the matter rest until you have satisfied your curiosity.” Her tone was the same one she’d used to quell childish rebellions in the nursery. “With each passing day on progress, your mother seemed to grow weaker and more listless. She never ate much. I suppose she had difficulty keeping food down, but she did not complain. She did not ask for physic. Then, near the end, she collapsed. That is when she was separated from the other ladies. I am told she lay on her bed like a dead woman, only the movement of her eyes showing that she still lived. And then she did die.”

“And no one cared.”

“People sicken and die all the time, Jane. It is God’s will. You must be satisfied with that.”

No, I thought. I cannot be.

I had lived too long questioning nothing. It was past time I dug further into my own background. There were answers to my questions, all of them, and I was determined to find them. When my uncle returned from the French war, I would be waiting for him.

IN THE ABSENCE of both King Henry and Queen Catherine, we remained in the Tower of London. The queen, having managed things to her liking in the matter of Scotland, all without the need to travel farther north than Woburn, went on to Walsingham to visit the shrine of Our Lady. This was a popular pilgrimage for women who wished to pray for the safe delivery of healthy children.

The Lady Mary and I passed our time agreeably enough. King Henry VII’s library was housed in the tower he’d built adjacent to the royal apartments. It contained French romances as well as religious tomes and histories. The Lady Mary enjoyed being read to. Still more, however, she liked to be active and she preferred to include gentlemen in her activities. The duc de Longueville accompanied us when we went to visit the royal menagerie.

“Kings of England have kept lions and leopards here at the Tower of London for as long as anyone can remember,” the Lady Mary told him.

The three of us peered into the pit where one of the great cats was confined. He had a golden mane and many sharp teeth and roared when the Lady Mary threw a rock in his direction.

“In my father’s reign,” Mary said, “a lion just like that one mauled a man to death.”

I was surprised she remembered hearing about that incident, for she’d been no more than three at the time. It was before I came to court. Her brother Henry had been old enough that when he’d been told what happened, he’d vowed never to go near the beasts again. To the best of my knowledge, he never had.

“In France, lions are used for sport,” the duke said. “Once I saw a mastiff pull down first a huge bear, then a leopard, and finally a lion, one after the other.”

“My father,” Mary countered, “once ordered a mastiff hanged because it presumed to fight against a lion. The lion, he said, was king and had sovereignty over all other beasts, therefore it was treason for a dog to attack it.”

“Let us go look at the porcupine,” I suggested.

Before we parted company with the duke, the princess invited him and the other French prisoners to dine with her the next day.

“What do you mean to offer for entertainment after we dine?” I asked as we watched Longueville walk away.

Mary’s smile faded. “It was most unfair of Henry to take the King’s Players away with him to war, and his fools and minstrels, as well. How am I to provide a lavish display with only a few musicians?”

“They will do well enough to provide music for dancing. And I am not without resources. I did help Harry Guildford devise some of his masques and pageants. Thanks to Harry, I know how to procure the services of tumblers, jugglers, and Morris dancers. I also know where to find John Goose.”

“Henry’s Goose?”

“The same.” The elderly fool, once part of the young Duke of York’s household at Eltham, had retired years before, but he lived in London.

I made all the arrangements. Less than twenty-four hours later, Goose was taking his final bow and the Lady Mary, wearing a new gown of carnation-colored brocade, claimed the duc de Longueville as her partner for a dance.

I found myself facing Guy Dunois as the musicians struck up a lively tune. “You look tired, Jane,” he said.

I made a face at him. “You are supposed to tell me my beauty surpasses that of a rose and give me other flowery compliments.”

We parted, as the dance demanded. When we faced each other again, his eyes were full of mischief. “You were never the rose, Jane, and these days, I vow, you are more like the thorn.”

“How wicked of you to say so.”

“I do but tell the truth. If you prick me, I will bleed.”

When we danced apart again, I frowned, trying to make sense of his banter. I had never purposely hurt Guy. Was he only teasing me, or had I inadvertently caused him pain? Or did he mean that I was about to?

As we once more joined hands, he begged my pardon for his harsh words. “You are, it is certain, no English rose, nor yet a French lily, but mayhap you are one of those new blossoms from the East that now grow in the Low Countries. They call them daffodils.”

For the second dance, Guy partnered the Lady Mary and I found myself facing the duc de Longueville. Rational thought fled. He paid me all the pretty compliments I could desire, making me feel like a princess myself.

He was a superb dancer, even better than King Henry. When he partnered the Lady Mary for a second time, I retired from the floor and gave myself leave to stare at him with unabashed appreciation.

Small shivers of excitement passed through me as I watched him caper and cavort. There was no question but that he was toothsome and that I was physically attracted to him. I told myself he was not for me, but I could not stop myself from imagining what skills he might bring to the bedchamber.

I repressed a sigh and chided myself for my wanton thoughts. When he was eventually ransomed, he would return to France to his wife. If he took me for a mistress now, where would I be then?

Tearing myself away, I slipped into the antechamber where the hired entertainers had gathered. It was my responsibility to make sure all of them had been fed and had received payment for their services. I stopped before the fool. “Master Goose,” I said. “Well played.”

“Mistress.” Age had lowered the pitch of his voice, but not by much.

Some fools are innocents, in need of a keeper to make certain they are fed and clothed. Others live by their wits, daring to be outrageous but seeing far more than they ever speak of. John Goose was in the latter category. “Did you know my mother, Goose?” I asked on an impulse.

“No, mistress. She was part of Queen Elizabeth’s household. I belonged to young Henry.”

I might have left it at that, but if Goose knew my mother had been one of the queen’s ladies, he might also recall other names. “Who else was there then?” I asked. “Can you remember?”

His brow furrowed in thought. “Before the great fire at Sheen that were, and after the great scholar Erasmus came to visit the royal children.”

“No. After the fire and before the visit.”

Goose thumped the side of his head with one fist. “Long ago. Long ago.” Then he brightened. “Lady Lovell. She were there!”

“Sir Thomas Lovell’s wife?”

“Aye, that’s the one. She yet lives. She serves the new queen now.”

My breath came a little faster at this news. Not only was Eleanor, Lady Lovell, in service to Queen Catherine, but so was her husband. Sir Thomas Lovell also held the post of constable of the Tower. Although he had gone north with the army to repel the Scottish invasion, he should return soon. The soldiers who had defeated the Scots were expected home well before the larger force that had gone with King Henry to France.

“Do you wish to hear the names of the others?” Goose asked.

“There are more? Ladies who served Queen Elizabeth and now serve Queen Catherine?”

“Oh, aye.” His head bobbed up and down. “Lady Weston. Lady Verney. Mistress Denys. Lady Marzen. Lady Pechey, too. Some not yet married in the old days, but they were at court.”

I recognized the names. I knew all these women by sight, although I was not on intimate terms with any of them. At present, five were with the queen at Walsingham. The sixth, Lady Marzen, was a member of the Lady Mary’s household.

That was not entirely good news, for it revealed a flaw in Goose’s memory. I had no doubt that everyone he’d named had once served Elizabeth of York, but the queen had outlived my mother by some five years and the composition of any royal retinue was wont to change with great frequency. Lady Marzen had been a minor heiress from Hertfordshire when she’d married Sir Francis, a groom of the privy chamber to King Henry VII…but they had not wed until well after my mother’s death.

“Died, did she?” A bemused look on his face, Goose seemed to be struggling to remember something.

“My mother? Yes. At Collyweston, on progress.”

Instantly, he brightened. “Skyp would have been there then. Ask Skyp.”

“Alas, I cannot.” Skyp, the Countess of Richmond’s fool, was long in his grave.

“Always wore high-heeled shoes, did Skyp,” Goose said. “Reached above his ankles.”

Boots, not shoes. Poor Goose could not even keep articles of apparel straight. And yet, in spite of my doubts about the fool’s memory, I asked another question. There was always a chance he would recall what I wished to know. “What priest would have given her last rites, Goose? What physician would have attended her?”

“Master Harding, clerk of the queen’s closet, was a priest.” Goose put both hands on his head. “Black round cap and black gown. A dull fellow.”

“What happened to him?”

“Went on pilgrimage and died in the Holy Land.”

Dumbfounded, I stared at him. I had heard of only one other Englishman who’d gone on pilgrimage in all the years I’d been at court. “With Sir Richard Guildford?”

“Aye. Aye. That’s the one. Reached Jerusalem only to die there.”

I felt as if I’d taken a blow to the midsection. Had Mother Guildford deliberately tried to mislead me? If Harding had traveled with her husband, she must have known his name. Could she have forgotten he tended my mother? It seemed unlikely. She remembered other things well enough. And she must also have known the names of all those ladies who’d returned to court to serve the new queen.

Goose picked up his pack and started to wander off, but at the door he turned back to me, eyes bright with curiosity. “If she died at Collyweston, would she not have been attended by the Countess of Richmond’s servants?”

“Who was the countess’s physician? Who was her confessor?”

But Goose’s moments of clarity had been flashes of lightning in the dark of night. Even as I watched, he went dull eyed and slack jawed. His wits dimmed by age, he could recall no more, not even my name.

It was left to me to puzzle out who among the ladies still at court might remember my mother and be able to tell me what physician and priest were with Maman when she died.

SINCE I COULD do nothing to pursue my inquiries until we left the Tower of London and rejoined Queen Catherine’s court, I set aside my questions for the nonce. The queen, sadly, had suffered another miscarriage shortly after leaving the shrine at Walsingham. She had sent word to the Lady Mary that Mary was to stay where she was. In the king’s continued absence, Catherine’s word, as regent, was law.

It was no hardship to remain in the Tower of London. The duc de Longueville’s company amused Mary and delighted me. The princess gave orders that he be allowed to go anywhere he chose within the Tower, save for her privy lodgings, without a guard. He gave her his parole not to try to escape.

After that, we spent a great deal of time in his company. The Lady Mary laughingly called me her duenna, charged with guarding her reputation while she dallied with the well-favored duke.

Afternoons and evenings passed quickly, filled with laughter and fine food, good music, and, because the princess commanded it, dancing. The duke often chose me as his partner, although I danced with Guy, too. It was from Guy that I learned that the duc de Longueville was King Louis’ distant cousin.

“I wonder if King Henry knows that,” I mused as we whirled in a circle with the movements of the dance. “Prisoners’ ransoms are set according to kinship as well as rank. The amount should be much higher for a king’s cousin.”

“Distant cousin,” Guy repeated. The steps of the dance took us apart, then brought us together again. “And even more distantly related to King Charles.”

“Then you must be, too,” I said without thinking.

“I do not count.” He chuckled. “Although it was through a bastard line that the Longuevilles descend from kings.” I could see he was well aware of the irony of that.

When I danced with Guy, we talked and sometimes joked.

When I danced with the duc de Longueville, the mere touch of his hand created a subtle longing to be held more closely in his arms, to be alone with him.

I took care never to be out of sight of the princess. Although she did not know it, she also served as my duenna.

Then came the evening when another strong thunderstorm blew in. The princess took to her bed, and I slipped away from her lodgings to let myself into the privy gallery. Within moments, the duke joined me.

“Mistress Popyncourt. I thought I might find you here.” The duke’s voice was deep and smooth, and when his hands came up to caress my shoulders I abandoned myself to the sensation. We were quite alone. No guards. No princess. No Guy.

In silence we watched until the storm passed. His hands slid from my shoulders to my waist, but he made no further overtures. In the eerie quiet that followed the noisy display of flashes and bolts, I felt him sigh.

“In that direction, far to the south, is our homeland,” he said.

“I was born in Brittany, not France,” I reminded him, and reminded myself that Brittany had been a separate entity at the time. Only after losing a war with France had Duchess Anne agreed to marry King Charles and unite the two.

“Brittany is part of France now,” the duke said, following my thought. “That makes you French.”

“I am English,” I insisted. Jane, not Jeanne.

“Are you?” The duke’s lips twitched, as if my assertion amused him. “I am not certain one can change one’s heritage.”

“I do not remember much about France,” I said. “I was only eight years old when I left. My mother brought me to England because my uncle was already here. He had come to this country with Henry Tudor, after King Henry’s exile in Brittany. The Lady Mary’s father,” I added, lest he should confuse the two King Henrys.

For a long time, I had avoided thinking about my earliest memories. It had been too painful to dwell on what I had lost. My father had died. My mother had died. I’d been taken away from everyone else I knew and cared for. And since it hurt to remember, I had lived entirely in the present. I had turned myself into a complete Englishwoman and a loyal servant of the Crown.

Longueville turned me in his arms till we faced each other yet kept a respectable distance between our bodies. His eyes were in shadow in the dimly lit gallery, but I could see his mouth most plainly. “A pity your mother did not take you to Brittany instead. We might have met sooner.”

“I suppose her family there had all died.”

“And your father’s family?”

“He came from Flanders. I know nothing of his kin.”

More questions. I wondered if I would ever answer them all.

“Are there many Bretons at the English court?” the duke asked.

“Fewer than in the last reign. My uncle remains, as does Sir Francis Marzen.” At that moment, I could think of no others.

Longueville’s thumb brushed my cheek. “Such a serious expression. Do you wish you might return someday?” He toyed with a lock of my hair that had somehow come loose from beneath my headdress.

Caught off guard by the suggestion, I took a step away from him.

He chuckled. “England and France will not always be enemies, Jane. You could return to Amboise.” He touched a fingertip to my lips. “You must forgive me. I asked Guy about you. My country seat is not far from Amboise, at Beaugency. Dunois Castle has been ours since my ancestor, the Bastard of Orléans, gave his support to Joan of Arc against the English.”

“Yet another time when England and France were at war. I do not think it would be wise for me to visit your homeland, my lord.”

“Will you go with your princess when she marries Charles of Castile?”

I nodded. I felt no great enthusiasm at the prospect. Charles of Castile had lands in Spain and in the Netherlands. I could not imagine living in either place.

“That is a great pity,” Longueville murmured. “Charles is a mere boy, not yet fourteen, with a great ugly beak of a nose.”

I turned to stare out at the darkness again. I could make out dozens of darting lights—lanterns carried by boats on the Thames. “I would like to see Amboise once more,” I admitted, “but I have no more choice about where I go than the princess does.”

“How long has her marriage been arranged?”

“Nearly seven years now. When she marries, she will be obliged to leave her homeland forever, as her sister, Margaret, did when she married the king of Scots. Mary has already said she wants to take me with her.” That would mean I’d most likely never see England again, but the alternative was even less to my liking—a pension and genteel poverty for the rest of my days. In my mind’s eye I saw myself living out my life in a little house in Blackfriars, slowly turning into another Mother Guildford.

“You might return to France instead.”

“I lack the wherewithal to travel, even if a peace were to last long enough to make such a thing possible.”

“You might come home with me,” Longueville whispered.

The flutter in my stomach, the sudden race of my heart, had me turning, lifting my face toward him. “You already have a wife.”

He smiled. “She is an understanding woman. She will not object to sharing me with you.”

“I do not wish to be…tolerated.”

His smile broadened, creating deep lines around his mobile mouth. “If she finds you even half as delightful as I do, she will befriend you.”

I felt my eyes narrow. “How many of your mistresses has she taken to?”

He laughed aloud at that. “You, my dearest Jane, are unique. You will enchant her, but not, I hope, in quite the same way I wish you to please me.”

Slowly, giving me every chance to evade him, he lowered his head toward mine. Our lips touched. He kissed me with exquisite, gentle thoroughness. Heart racing, skin hot as fire, limbs atremble, I kissed him back.

When he took my arm, I went with him through one torchlit passage, down a stairway illuminated by lanterns, and along another corridor, this one redolent with freshly changed rushes and crushed woodruff. I knew where we were headed, but I did not demur. At that moment, I wanted to lie with him more than I wanted my next breath and it had little to do with his offer to take me with him to France.

“Shall I serve as your tiring maid?” he asked when we were alone in his bedchamber. The only light came from the hearth, bathing the chamber in a rosy glow.

Without waiting for my answer, he put his mouth on mine again and set quick, clever hands to untying the laces at my back. He freed me from my clothing with a skill and a rapidity that left me almost as dazed as the magic in his kiss.

Caught up in myriad pleasurable sensations, I never thought to protest. Everywhere he touched, I tingled. It was like being caught out in a furious storm—thrilling, exhilarating, and just a little dangerous.

When he had stripped me of all but my shift, discarding my body stitchet by tossing it halfway across the room, he started on his own clothing. I touched the place his mouth had been with the tip of my tongue and tasted him there—sweet Spanish wine and something darker and more heady still.

Doublet and hose soon lay in a disorderly heap atop my bodice and kirtle, and he was edging me backward toward the curtained bed. Laughing, he reached out to catch me by the waist and lift me up onto the mattress. With a lithe movement, he positioned himself beside me and began kissing me again.

I put a hand out to stop him. “I have not…I do not—”

“I know,” he said. “I will be gentle with you.”

His kisses were soft, his breath sweet. He knew just how to dispel a maiden’s fears. The sensual aroma of ambergris surrounded us, a subtle, mossy, musky scent drifting up from the bedding.

I shook my head to clear it. “This is not wise,” I murmured, more to myself than to him.

“No harm will come to you for being with me, my dearest Jeanne. I swear it.”

“Jane.” I corrected him without thinking, then froze, remembering that he was the duc de Longueville. He was the next thing to royalty and not to be contradicted.

He surprised me by laughing again. “I believe I shall address you as ‘sweeting,’ as the English do their paramours.” The way he said the word, in English with a trace of a French accent, made the endearment sound as if he had coined it just for me.

I melted against him, tentatively joining in the love play. I touched my tongue to the side of his neck and tasted him.

We were lying inside the drawn curtains now, shielded from the rest of the world. Only enough light filtered through the gaps in the hangings to allow me to see the admiration in his gaze. That his glittering black eyes also contained a hint of amusement gave me pause, but only for a moment.

“Shall I call you sweeting in return?” I whispered, suddenly unsure how to address my lover. “Your Grace” seemed impossibly formal in private and I could not bring myself to call him by the Christian name he shared with the king of France.

“But I am not sweet,” he protested, and tumbled with me across the wide, wool-stuffed mattress until we sank together into the dip in the middle of the bed.

“Shall I choose a spice, then?” I teased him. Greatly daring, I ran my hand over his cheek. He turned his face into my palm and kissed it.

“I have always been partial to coriander.”

The name suited him, I thought. The ripe seeds had a pleasantly citrus smell.

I would willingly have played like that for hours, but with an eagerness that stirred my blood he turned his attention to making short work of my shift and his shirt. When they were gone, I had but a moment to revel in the experience of being naked in a man’s arms. Enjoying every delicious new sensation, I was just beginning to learn his body and to savor his first intimate touches on mine, when he abruptly rolled me onto my back and plunged inside me.

The building pleasure was replaced by sharp, searing pain.

He begged my forgiveness, but he did not stop.

Afterward, when his breathing had calmed and the sweat had nearly dried on our still entwined bodies, he declared that he must rest awhile. “Go and wash yourself,” he instructed, “but then come back to bed. The next time will please you better.”

He was already snoring by the time I located the basin and ewer.